harriedherodotus

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls‌:

Your estimate says Jiaahu’s at least a little younger than you, but you’d never guess that from how primly he glances away from you, that patient tone as he explains circumnavigation to you – to you! You swear bluebloods are hatched with their heads up their asses. 

Credit where credit’s due, though – you haven’t seen your pupahood friends since you moved because you’ve been, for the most part, actively avoiding them. Know-it-all has a point. Enough of one for you not to deck him, anyway. You’re so mature and even-tempered these nights!

Instead, you quirk an eyebrow, vault neatly over his rail. You like Jiaahu’s ship. The age-smoothed wood feels good under your hands, feels steady, secure – feels maternal, weird as that sounds even to yourself. “I’m not squatting,” you protest, pulling out your emergency concealer. “I just… think it’s useful to have more than one hive. Since mine doesn’t move.” 

You don’t bother trying to guide him; like it always does when you’re aboard, the mist opens neatly on the small mooring bay. The coastline curves weirdly here, hiding the natural stone dock and ancient iron mooring posts until you’re almost right up on them. If Jiaahu were alone, you wouldn’t fancy his chances finding it – although, yesterday you wouldn’t have fancied his chances of even finding the island. Which is a little worrying. 

While he navigates, you attend to your makeup. No point in contouring or highlighting or anything like that, not when it’s just a patch job. You slick pale gray cream over the worst areas, run your fingers lightly over the notched scar tissue on your ears and neck, double check your overall look in a compact mirror – kind of a mess by your standards, but probably fine by anyone else’s.

“So what brought you out this way, anyway?” you ask, as the ship pulls up to the shore. “Racing again? History shit?”

Is it concealer she pulls out of her pocket? Most of you wants to object, just on common sense alone. What if it melted? Riccin keeps their makeup in a case, hidden away in the folds of their skirt, well away from their skin. Taz is nowhere near as layered, nor as insulated. Anything held close to her skin should be putty.

Except she's not a lowblood. She's teal, and even Myrrha, as low as her blood swings, has never had that particular problem. Still, there's something insipid about the fact she's so protective of her secret.

There's something stupid about the fact that, once she's on your ship, you simply turn away to give her space.

The mist parts like a curtain in front of you. If she were lower, you'd wonder if it was psionics. As is, you know the ways of the sea, and you know it's always best to simply not ask. "Was it bestowed to you?" you demand, bored. "Is it a remnant of your bloodline? Because. If it wasn't. Then you're squatting. Especially if it has a castle."

"You're just lucky whoever owns it doesn't care enough to return." You're steering as you talk, keeping an eye towards what feels like the shoreline. The mist is thinning around you, enough for you to see rough shapes and outlines. Not enough for you to avoid wrecking, if you went fast, and so you take it easy, navigating like every surface might hide rocks to sink you to the depths. "And I --"

What harm is there in honesty? It's not like she's got any room to judge. "- was looking for my ancestor's colonies," you say, your voice flatter now, your eyes focused on the horizon. "She had several. Including an entire archipelago, at her peak.”

>LIYIJI: Tread water.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls‌:

He crinkles his nose at you and, yeah, okay, you had that coming. You close your eyes to avoid the blueblood scorn, but– your face is smearing?

“What,” you say, blank, then notice the smears of makeup on your hands. “Fuck’s sake.” You shove your hands into your pockets, hoping your skin doesn’t flush before you can cover it again. 

He didn’t have to tell you that. He’s probably been wanting to know your color for a while anyway, he could have just waited, and known, and written you off for it. “…Thanks,” you say awkwardly. “And – is it inevitable? It’s a big planet. It’s a big sector of the planet. I haven’t seen half the people I sailed with as a kid in sweeps.”

Okay, you’re kind of obsessing about the makeup thing now. You put your hand up to shield the worst-smeared parts. “It’s a hive. I mean, sort of. Not a tent. It’s–” You hesitate. But you’re going to have to tell him anyway, if you’re inviting him in. “The entrance is back that way. It’s – I stay here sometimes.

“There’s room for a vessel about this size just on the other side of the point, there.” You gesture east, then quickly shade your face again. “Think there’s a few mooring rings, too. I can go with you or walk around, like, whichever.

"Mm."

She's so awkward. Sh eshoves her hands in her pockets. Then she holds up a hand in front of her face, fingers hooked like they'll block your vision. It's enough to make you feel like you shouldn't have said anything at all, because even her fury over you knowing her blood colour would be less aggravating than the way she's so blatantly trying to hide it.

When she gestures, you think she's finally giving up the ghost -

- then she shades her face again, and you huff, pointedly turning away entirely as you focus your gaze on the horizon. "It's a big planet," you say, patiently, "but who the fuck sails all the way across it? If you haven't seen people you used to know. They're probably dead."

"And -"

You could leave the island entirely, fog or no. Or you could stay in your ship. But going inside a hive, somewhere warm, with fresh food, is too appealing to pass up, even with the unnecessary addition of company. As far as things go, she isn't the worst company you could have.

Riccin could be stuck here with you. "You can get on board," you say, finally, and turn again, this time moving to begin steering your ship. "Why are you squatting on an /island/?"

>LIYIJI: Tread water.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls‌:

Oh no. Absolutely not. No way. You lower your gun and stare, dumbfounded, at Jiaahu – who is inexplicably sitting on his ship at your island, cool as a fucking cucumber. 

“What,” you say, and flounder a bit for a quip. “You didn’t picture me in this kind of highrise?” Which, okay, that’s shit. But you’re a little bit gobsmacked. Enough to just blurt, “No, I don’t live here. It’s – I do live in Ketera, this is just my–” 

You stop. Drag your hands down your face. Start again. “What are you even doing here? Scratch that, how are you even here? I’ve bumped into you like six times in a sweep, and that is really not that common for me, but at least that could be a series of coincidences but this–”

This island is unplottable, your ancestor wrote in her journal. No one but me and mine will ever touch its shores. And that’s fine, but what does it mean for the pissy, fashion-backward blueblood camping on your coast?

“Look,” you say, scrubbing a hand through your hair. “Do you want to get your ship to a less – to a better berth? I guess I’m hosting now, I’ve got… shit, I don’t know, coffee? Or no, it’s tea, right?”

That’s one of the worst retorts you’ve ever heard, and the way you wrinkle your nose makes it clear.

But you don’t need to bother with words, not when Taz is looking so positively wretched about it. She drags her hands down her face, palms heavy against the skin, and the sight of it makes you shift. She’s ruining her foundation, you think. Must be. If you go by how Riccin acts if anyone so much as gets water on their face..

It’d be bizarre to mention that, though. And if Taz ruins her face, shows off whatever chrome is blotching under all of it, isn’t that her own fucking fault? She shouldn’t be hemoanon at all. In a way, you could be helping her out, just by not running your mouth.

“Your face is smearing,” you say instead, and if you want to bite your own tongue out over the blurt, at least it doesn’t show in your tone. “And I sailed here. We are in the same area. Bumping into each other is inevitable. Don’t you think.” Whatever. If you’re not embarrassed over the slip-up, then it’s fine. And if there’s bile at the back of your throat over the words, that’s fine, too. She doesn’t know.

She can’t tell, either, and that’s almost enough to settle your distress. Almost. Taz drags a hand through her hair, and you fold your arms, leaning back. Coffee, and tea. And food, presumably, other than the hard-tack and fish you’ve got sitting in your cellar.

The mist is damp. It clings to your skin like a cloak, soaking through your clothes, cold enough that you can feel it seeping into your bones.

“Do you have a hive?” you ask, looking away from her, and off into the fog still blanketing the ground behind her. “On here. Obviously. Or are we talking about a tent.”

>LIYIJI: Tread water.

[harriedherodotus]

The suck and clop of boots in the mud is what draws your attention towards the shore, away from the fog. This far at sea, there's no sound save for the waves lapping at the sides of your boat. The footsteps are impossible to ignore.

That's fine. It's unease, not fear, that has sweat pricking down your spine. Uncertainty's not something you've ever feared. How could it? You know the things that're important. Everything else..

You can't say it doesn't matter. There's a great many things been good health and death that could fucking happen, if you ever let your guard down. But it's not quite worth fearing, and you know that, no matter what your treacherous body claims. No. It's just unease. And you know the best way to vanquish that.

When the troll pops out of the fog, boot thumping hard on the slick jut of the boulder in front of you, you're ready for anything. Except for the bone pale eyes to be staring at you from a familiar face, and speaking with a familiar voice.

"Please tell me you don't live here," you deadpan. It's definitely not fear now. There's guns, but that's fine. If you are at any risk of getting shot, that sort of wound is volatile enough to have seen it. You think. "Isn't this a little. Rural. For you?"

>LIYIJI: Tread water.

@mirkstrolls

Fuck you, you’re trying not to.

But the mist is thick enough here that it pools across the surface of your deck in liquid streams. It’s heavy, almost syrupy, in a way you’ve never seen it, and it hangs over the sea like blankets, without even the smallest breeze to stir it. You’ve abandoned your sails, and you’ve moved onto using paddles.

But even with that, the prow of your ship is barely cutting through it. And, of course, even if it did, even if you could get any momentum at all -

- your compass just won’t fucking work.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. There’s no reason for the coil of ice in the bottom of your throat, or the dryness of your mouth. You didn’t dream of anything happening on an island tonight, so the fact you can’t seem to get away from the coastline shouldn’t fucking matter. But you don’t like the look of it, looming out of the mist. It sits like an omen, one that you can’t escape.

There’s nothing else to do, though. The shoreline is right there, and despite your attempts, there’s no way you can sail through this.  So you let your boat drift up to the rocks, near enough to one to set anchor, and.. you should get out. You should. But you hesitate instead.

(You’ve always hated feeling like you can’t escape.)

[harriedherodotus]

>LIYIJI: Tread water.

@mirkstrolls

Fuck you, you’re trying not to.

But the mist is thick enough here that it pools across the surface of your deck in liquid streams. It’s heavy, almost syrupy, in a way you’ve never seen it, and it hangs over the sea like blankets, without even the smallest breeze to stir it. You’ve abandoned your sails, and you’ve moved onto using paddles.

But even with that, the prow of your ship is barely cutting through it. And, of course, even if it did, even if you could get any momentum at all -

- your compass just won’t fucking work.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. There’s no reason for the coil of ice in the bottom of your throat, or the dryness of your mouth. You didn’t dream of anything happening on an island tonight, so the fact you can’t seem to get away from the coastline shouldn’t fucking matter. But you don’t like the look of it, looming out of the mist. It sits like an omen, one that you can’t escape.

There’s nothing else to do, though. The shoreline is right there, and despite your attempts, there’s no way you can sail through this.  So you let your boat drift up to the rocks, near enough to one to set anchor, and.. you should get out. You should. But you hesitate instead.

(You’ve always hated feeling like you can’t escape.)

[harriedherodotus]

♠️♣♥♦ for Liyiji!

♠️: Liyiji prefers docile kismesises. He’s got blueblood strength, and is intimately aware of every single way that can go wrong. He wants posturing, he wants mind games, and he wants to avoid any fights that’ll result in his visions coming true. People actually fighting him - or worse yet, biting him - are getting flung in the sea.

♣: Ashen would lean heavily towards moirallegience overlap with him! Liyiji secretly really, really, really fucking wants an auspistice who can just serve as a shield between him and the rest of the world, in exchange for him handling their biz on a more logical level, and it’s the only quadrant he actively seeks out.

♥: Liyiji’s weird about flush. Would it be nice? Probably! Has he had the occasional fling? Absolutely. Most of his experience, though, has been people declaring they’re dating on the internet, or that he’s going out with them in person, and he just.. rolls along with it. He’s not an easily steamrolled person in general, but give him someone with confidence enough to steer in flush, and he’s usually flustered or curious enough to just go with it.

♦: He tends to be emotionally distant even in moirallegience! Talking about himself makes him anxious, and so he just doesn’t, along with self-reflection. Similarly, his love language tends to assume that of others, and act accordingly. Liyiji is not big overtures: he’s the cat who considers the fact he’s in the same room and slowly blinking to be a sign of undying devotion.

[harriedherodotus]

⚠ for Liyiji (even tho you've answered recently)

You’ve never been able to handle Riccin crying. But in the past, they’ve always stopped, if you’d waited long enough; you could turn your back and plug your ears, and eventually the sobs would turn to sniffles, and the sniffles would fade into something else entirely. This time, you can’t ignore them.

The sobs have just turned into something fucking awful instead, choking, wheezing breathes that seem like they’ll break their ribs with every passing moment. “Riccin,” you plead. “Please.”

But their shoulders shake, and the sounds only get worse.

You wet your lips. You take a step forward, placing a hand on their back. Their skin feels like Myrrha’s. It feels like yours. It always has, ever since you hit old enough to ever notice. It makes it easy to forget things.

But when they look up at you, the liquid streaming from their eyes is still gold.

“Tell me that I’m not going to die,” they manage, desperate, and their skin under your palm is suddenly hot enough to burn. They twist around, scrambling at your wrist - at your arms - and under their fingers, your skin twists and puckers. “Promise me, Li, I ain’t gonna die -”

“Riccin -”

“Promise me!”

[harriedherodotus]

🎁 Kneedeep in the north sea!

Liyij is incredibly bad at gifts, and gets weirdly anxious about them, so he.. just doesn’t do them, if he can avoid it. More meaningful to him, anyway, is the fact he goes out of his way to visit her, and spends the entire night just hanging around.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls:

You can’t help but crack a small smile. For all Jiaahu is a blueblood and an asshole, you’d forgotten that he’s amazingly quick with catty responses. It’s almost endearing, in an irritating way.

“This is the biggest sails-only race in three districts, and the city’s ritzy as hell.” You shrug, buff your nails on your sleeve. “They make this whole festival of it to pull in even more tourists, get the town hyped. And you know fish, anything even borderline involving water and they think it’s their God-given right to get involved.”

He’s more monotone than you at your worst, isn’t he? But you know a call for help when you hear it, and nod briskly. “It’s not far, just up on the next level. Maybe five minutes walk, though this crowd is gonna make it longer. This way.”  Taking a deep breath, you step out into the rush, making sure you keep an eye on Jiaahu – don’t want him getting swept away now, do you. 

“Boat’s in for repair,” you explain, pitching your voice to be heard over the chatter around you. “Not really seaworthy yet, and I didn’t want to test it on the race, of all things.” And you haven’t raced in Llunes since the dim season before Daaeme left. Your old acquaintances wouldn’t know the Verda to look at her, but the name would set off alarms for anyone who spoke Llunesian. 

You hesitate for a moment, steering Jiaahu around a knot of babbling ceruleans and heading up the big, deep-worn stairs to the next tier of the city. You’re not friends with Jiaahu, you’re barely even acquaintances, and asking if you could go along would be beyond imposing. No matter how much more secure you’d feel hiding behind the foreign lines of his ship and the blue of his hue. No matter how good it’d feel to race again, get out on the open water and show this passel of tourists who’s boss. 

“Wish I was racing though, it’s a great experience.” There, that’s neutral enough. Unless he assumes you’re fishing for an invite, which is… okay, subtext is not your problem, moving on.

This level is a bit richer – the whitewash on the buildings is fresher, the clothes of the residents are nicer, it looks classy-old instead of a little shabby. It’s also even more packed. You sweep your eyes across the bustle, and then point with your chin to a denser knot in the already-dense crowd, seemingly centered around a brightly-colored fabric awning that juts from the wall of a hive. 

“Thar she blows,” you drawl, adjusting your moonglasses. “Get your jabbing-elbows ready, because this is going to be a bit of a hassle.”

And with that, you forge on into the fray.

There's something relaxing in the way she smiles at you. You're not some grub, to go cavorting for the approval of a fucking hemoanon. Her opinion doesn't matter to you. It can't, not when she's not even mature enough to wear her own colour.

But obviously, you're not doing too badly at socialising if she's feeling friendly. She could be faking, you suppose, but.. no. You're not even considering that path, because it doesn't matter if she is.

There's a sharp intake of breath that would make you pause, but there's no time for it: she rolls back her shoulders, and she steps into the crowd as briskly as if she was at work. It's easier to follow her in then it was to push through the first time. There's steps to follow, and horns to keep your gaze on, even if they are nubs. You don't have to pay attention to the press of bodies around you, or where you're going.

You don't even have to pay attention to this constant noise, because she's speaking, her voice pitched just so you can hear it. "Tourists," you deadpan. "Fucking wonderful. We're in the sea. You'd think they'd have had enough of boats."

Her boat's in repair. That's.. unfortunate, you think, but you're not sure how to say that in a way she won't bristle at. Is she too poor to fix it? She's certainly not a castemate under all that gray, then. You have to fix your own boat, when issues come up, but your circumstances are unique.

What had you decided, last time? She was a teal? With a boat of her size, you could almost see it. That'd be expensive, with the labour. Moreso if she wanted to make it look nicer. You try to pay attention to that sort of thing. It's better to know, after all: just because you can't afford it doesn't mean that you shouldn't know what the cost of your labour is.

"Are the rest of the racers tourists?" you ask instead. The city gets nicer as you travel up the steps to the next tier: the walls are white, the clothing is neatly mended, and everything here is rustic, in a way that reminds you of Myrrha's old hives and the hills of Hanhai. It's nicer, but the crowds aren't thinning, not at all. And even though you're dogging Taz's steps, your ears are pinned back by the time you finally emerge from the crowd.

(There's too many people. There's too much touching, skin against yours, fabric chafing, voices washing over you like a sea, and it's not just your ears that're back: your chest is tight, too.)

"Hello!" the greenblood behind the counter sings, leaning forward. She's a round little thing, all dimples and blood-flushed skin, and once she makes eye contact, she doesn't want to break it. "Can I help you, sir?" She grins at you, teeth bared, and the skin along the back of your neck pricks.

It's a stupid reaction. But she's looking at you, eyes dragging across the faded white of your shirt, the scars on your face, and each passing second feels like everyone else will notice, too. With how much she's staring, surely it'll stand out. And surely everyone else will start looking, too, and -

"I'm here to sign up for the races," you rasp, and you hate the way your voice sounds right now: thicker, heavier, like your tongue's weighed down by anxiety that you can't quite manage to swallow. There's no helping it, though, except to slog on. And if your expression darkens - fuck it, it does, going by the blanching of the green - well, that's not your problem.

"Right!" She bites her lip and ducks her head back towards her monitor, tapping away. "Um! Is that for - ah, that's to say - one or two, sir?"

Oh. Right. Taz's behind you.

"Two," you blurt out, and immediately regret it. You glance back at her. How are you supposed to read her behind those glasses? You have no idea. But -- "Right?" you say, flat. Was that inappropriate of you? She's a hemoanon: if you ordered her, then she'd have to ride with you, but no. The idea of that sort of thing makes you sick, caste rights or no, so you add: "You said you wanted to race."

> LIYIJI: RACE FOR TIME.

[harriedherodotus]

📱 li and taz right back atcha! >:D

>:D

UNSENT:

JV: –look /dk -f you even bel-eve -n, l-ke, ancestors and serend-p-ty and stuff l-ke thatJV: –but / doJV: –andJV:–/dk, don’t you th-nk -t’s we-rd?JV: –how we keep runn-ng -nto each other?

JV: –你好, 食飽未 ?  JV: –d-d / do that r-ght? 

JV: –hey uh, j-aahuJV: –you don’t care about my bloodcolor that much, r-ght?JV: –l-ke / know we both hate f-sh, but you wouldn’t l-ike fl-p out -f / was a f-sh or a rustblood or w\eJV: –would you?

JV: –/ know -t’s hard to deal w-th th-s amount of peopleJV: –but you’re gonna do greatJV: –/ prom-se, l-y-j-

JV: –do you ever feel l-ke just fuck-ng burn-ng your l-fe to the ground and stow-ng away on a sh-p headed -nto deep space JV: –because -t has off-c-ally been o n e  o f  t h o s e  n - g h t s 

SENT:

JV: –tell yr dad’s hatchl-ngs to stop eat-ng my lunch, dude

[attached photo of a bunch of baby sea-turtles swarming Taz’s feet and picnic blanket as she sits on a beach]

JV: –/nc-dentally, my lunch -s better than whatever you’re eat-ngJV: –wh-ch -s, what, raw f-sh that’s st-ll flopp-ng around?

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls:

You wouldn’t think someone dressed like a rustblood dockrat could manage to look prissy, but somehow Jiaahu pulls it off. You settle your moonglasses back onto your face with all the elegance you can muster and raise one eyebrow right back at him.

“I wouldn’t say surprised, just not expecting to bump into someone I met as literally a ship in the dawn.” What’s he crossing his arms about, now? You’re being polite, for you. Bluebloods, you swear. “…Yeah,” you add, to his question, “it’s racing season, hence, you know, this.” A brief gesture to the bustling crowds, some of which are eyeing you with mild interest.

Common sense says you should tell him Well, nice to see ya, gotta bail and vanish into the bustle right about now. The crawling feeling on your spine says you need a minute before plunging into a mass of sweaty, loud trolls just yet, and the creeping feeling tends to short-circuit your common sense on nights like tonight. You brace yourself for – ugh – smalltalk. “…I take it you’re here for them too? I’m just spectating, myself, but I know where the sign-up booth is. If you’re still looking. Crowds are hell, you know?”

Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll just go home. Maybe you’ll just go home, back to Ketera or out to the island. Why did you think this was a good idea.

She actually raises her eyebrow over her lenses at you, like she’s some sort of primadonna. You sniff, tapping your fingers against your skin, and at least the flash of irritation that offers is a distraction from the swell of anxiety. Her words are crisp. Her expression is unfriendly. You should just walk away, now that you’ve made your dues.

But she keeps talking, and this is a refuge from the crowd all around you. And you’d stopped her for a reason, even if you hadn’t realised she was.. well.. her.

“It’s a small sea,” you say, dry. “Not too many ports around. It would happen eventually.” You tend to sail closer to the eastern isles, so it’s not really a true statement, but Myrrha would be proud, you think. It’s just the right mixture of snark, and manners. The sort of thing that people appreciate.

You hope.

“And. Mm. The crowd is less than ideal. Why are there so many?” Everything in Standard always comes out so flat, so free of nuance: if it weren’t for the dryness pricking the back of your tongue, you’d appreciate it, but right now, even a small balm is welcome. You don’t have to worry about sounding anxious in Standard: no matter what you say, no matter what you do, everything sounds properly blue, and with that thought, you lift your chin, peer fully down your nose. “I didn’t realise it’d be so busy. Or so few fish.”

“If you could show me the sign-up booth,” you add, “it would be.. appreciated. Why aren’t you racing?”

> LIYIJI: RACE FOR TIME.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls:

When the humidity in Ketera climbs upwards of eighty percent, you always end longing for the cool, fresh breezes of home. It’s easy to idealize – easy to think of as home, even if you haven’t lived there in more than three sweeps. But you’re back now, those same sea breezes tugging at the silk scarf you’ve wrapped around your head, the moonlight glittering off the whitewashed walls and sandy streets – and God, how could you have forgotten how horrible Llunes is in tourist season?

Even when you were a pupa, the population would triple with the flood of out-of-towners. And it’s clear that the sweeps have only made the town more of a destination; the streets are packed. So are the hotels, both luxurious and seedy varieties. And the B&Bs. And the harbor, ugh. It’s not like you don’t still have friends here – Sernya would put you up even if no one else would – but none of them know you’re back in town, and you’d prefer things stay that way. They don’t know you anymore, not really and you don’t really want to be recognized. Hence the scarf (though it’s also keeping your hair out of your face and the moonlight off your scalp); hence, also, the huge moonglasses that hide your eyes and a good chunk of your cheeks and forehead. Sort of a Troll Coco Chanel vibe, is what you’re going for, because, well – maintaining style in anonymity is kind of your thing. 

So you stroll (tensely) through the streets like you’ve never been here before, and gawk enough at the lunar mosaics that you could be seeing them for the first time but not enough to arouse suspicions, and try to keep your breathing even, try not to draw your pistols every time someone jostles you in the crowd – and like, God, was this even a good idea? You’ve been hankering to see the races again since you mentioned them to that blueblood kid on the boat, but there’s a hundred things you could be working on back at the shop, or, like, anywhere else besides the crowded fucking streets of your hometown, which is currently swarming with seadwellers, fuck!

And of course, just when you’re on the point of wigging out right here on a busy street next to some cutesy stand of Real Champion-recommended Sailing Guides!!, right then is when a hand lands on your shoulder and some imperious voice asks if you’re the one handling sign-ups. The fact that you don’t put your fist through this douche’s nose is a God-sent miracle, in your humble fucking opinion.

“Do I look like–” you start as you’re turning around. But the verbal smackdown you were prepared to deliver never makes it out, and not because your mami’s lectures on being polite to strangers just finally sunk in. There is literally no fucking way–

You look again. You tilt your moonglasses down a hair so you can squint over them, and holy shit. Same tall, crooked horns. Same plaited hair and cheeks moonburned to a ridculous shade of blue. Same shabby-ass, bleached-out tunic, God help him. Standing on the streets of your town, looking about as comfortable as a rust at a fish party. 

“–Jiaahu?” you ask, voice almost cracking with disbelief.

The name makes you startle. The voice's familiar enough, at least, but when you turn around to face them...

The scarf's nice enough, you suppose. The glasses, though, make you blink, and your gaze's scarcely drifted up to take in the horn stumps before they snap back to them. They're so large. You can actually see the city reflected in them behind you: the mosiacs, the buildings, the crowds of trolls drifting by, and the stragglers who are beginning to gawk.

Fuck.

"Don't sound so surprised," you say, bland, and fold your arms. (To maintain posture. Not because you're stressed. Not because she looks like she's ready to rip your hand straight from the socket, and grind it into mincemeat.) When she lifts up her moonglasses to peer at you, the pearl-white of her eyes made crisper in contrast to the dark, you just purse your lips, eyebrows arched high.

You have no idea why she's here. She mentioned it, but you didn't think she'd actually - no. No, that's because you were being fucking stupid, of course you know why she's here, and of course she'd fucking be here. At least she can't tell what you're thinking.

And if you keep talking, maybe she won't guess that you're as surprised as she is. "Miss Taz.” A beat. “.. are you here for the races?”

(Of course she is. Goddamnit.)

> LIYIJI: RACE FOR TIME.

[harriedherodotus]

> LIYIJI: RACE FOR TIME.

[@mirkstrolls​]

The most tolerable thing about Llunes is that it's not that different from Lang-Kheh.

But if Lang-Kheh is a freight town, built to harbor the Empress's ships and transport her goods, then Llunes is an actual city. The hives stretch back from the shoreline all the way to the peak of the hill, built up in terraces as far as the eye can see. There's roads streaked through them, and even from the water, you can see the sea of black moving through them. There's more people here than in Lang-Kheh doubled.

There might even be more people than in Temasek.

It's not an endearing thought. But the town still feels familiar, even if it's not, and that drags you through the legion of boats crowding the bay, and into finally finding an empty spot to safely anchor yours. A moment later, you've waved down one of the smaller boats - skiff, skiff is the word - and paid them to haul you to shore. Is your Standard lapsing? They hesitate for longer than you'd like. But it's not worth thinking about, not when your attention has to be on the crowd, instead.

There's so many people here. It makes your palms itch, but you can manage it. You sweep through the crowd, head held high, horns tossed just slightly in an aggressive mantle as you walk - daring people to look at you, daring them to do more than brush out of the way. You're a navy, the highest chrome a landdweller can achieve. They ought to move.

And when you spot a figure lingering by the books, yuo keep that in mind. A tap of your hand on their shoulder, and then, brusque: "- are you the one handling signups?"

[harriedherodotus]

havesomefantrolls:

Now he’s covering his eyes. This is probably the most squeamish blueblood you’ve ever treated, but you can’t really blame him, you suppose. Who actually likes watching someone stick sharp objects into their infected wounds?

“What do you do in your spare time? Do you fish a lot, since you’re out on the ocean? Or is that now allowed by the local seadwellers?” You want to keep him talking, a distraction so he’s not stressing over the proceedure. He’s breaking into different languages, so you’re sure he’s quite stressed right now. It’s pretty standard for you by this point, really. You also wouldn’t mind hearing if he’s shot down any more fish recently either. You like when people do that thing.

“Haha, that’s a pretty impressive distance.” Your voice is cheerful as you carefully pull the buckshout out of his arm, setting it next to you and doing a quick check for anything else that might have gotten stuck in there. After pulling out a few more pieces of seaweed, you set about preparing your disinfecting solution. You actually developed this one yourself and you’ve found it works quite well for your needs.

“I haven’t seen any signs of poison.” You glance over your shoulder at him, still smiling as you launch into an explanation. “But infections can spread very quickly. And several hours is more than enough time for one to brew. Particularly in sea water. You don’t want to know what kinds of bacteria live in sea water.”

The doctor has a pleasant enough voice. Soft-spoken, quiet: he speaks slowly enough that it’s not hard to keep track of him, but not so slowly that it’s an offense. Better to focus on that, than the sounds coming from your shoulder. “The local seadwellers stay away. If they’ve got common sense. And if they don’t --”

The sound you make isn’t quite a laugh. “Well. They learn to. Last time I checked the laws. They don’t own the seas. Isn’t this a boating town?” They had a dock, but you hadn’t seen too many fish milling around. Then again.. you had been busy.

The murmur of his footsteps as he moves away is better than the clink of buckshot on the table. So you risk uncovering your eyes, ears pricking as you catch the smile. You don’t quite manage a smile back, but - it’s something to look at, other than your blood on the table. (And even that thought makes your breath hitch. Goddamnit.) “.. lovely. I can fucking imagine. All the animals in it..” You exhale. “All the fish,” you say, sour, and then pause.

“... I don’t usually go swimming with wounds. Obviously. I mentioned that. Didn’t I?”

LIYIJI: get some new scars.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls:

You cluck your tongue. “Some people like to feel like they’re not at sea when they’re on a boat, I guess. And waders, which, okay, yeah, why not just buy an island hive already, God.”

He’s rattling around in the cabin, and you take the moment to glance skyward (it’s almost daylight and you can’t afford to get a sunburn around other people–), then fondly at your Verda. “Hah, I bet one would just about fit if I took…. literally everything out but the mast. Literal floating ablution trap.”

A prickle on your skin, and you turn to realize Jiaahu’s trying to hand you a mug of tea. You grab it with a muttered thanks, and blow on the surface as you scoot back out of his personal space and lean against the mast. Maybe he’s decent for a blueblood kid, but that doesn’t mean you want him all up in your business.

“No sugar, thanks,” you tell him. “And yeah, it’s– honestly a bit of a mess. But hey, beachfront property is cheaper than it could be.” You take a cautious sip, and then a larger one when your tongue isn’t singed. “Where, uh, where are you from?” you ask. “You don’t sound like Temasek.” 

Shit, that was probably rude. Younger you would have been ready to throw down about a comment like that. “…No offense,” you add. “I don’t sound much like Ketera, either. I’m not– like, Standard’s not my first language, I notice when–” Oh my god, stop, you idiot, you’re just making it worse. You sigh and gently bap yourself in the forehead. “Sorry, babbling. Where are you from?”

She takes the mug and you step back so that you can lean against the cabin wall. The horizon's beginning to brighten, pink streaks appearing thorugh the blue like a bruise, and the taut skin of your face itches. Your goggles are inside.

.. but you're not staying out in the sun to chatter with some girl, regardless. Even if she's being more awkward than you. "I'm not from Temasek. What gave it away? The lack of lah, lah’s?" you joke, letting your pitch twist up on the last syllable, and then you snort, grimacing like it's a bad taste in your mouth. After sweeps of being near Riccin, it’s appalling how familiar that still sounds.

Should you tell her it's alright to babble? No. That's a little awkward, wouldn't it be, so you blow on your tea instead, then take a sip. By the time you've swallowed, she's composed herself. ".. the Eastern Islands. Out past the archipelago. Into the sea. Farther than where you sail. Probably.”

“Where are you from? If not Ketera.” A beat. “.. if you can say it quickly,” you say, dry, and glance over at the horizon. “Sun’s coming up. And I don’t suppose you want to get burned.”

>LIYIJI: Get help.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls:

“There are places where the distance from the ocean floor to the surface is deeper than the highest mountains on Alternia are tall.” You blow a stray lock of hair out of your face. “Like, can you fucking imagine? I refuse to believe there’s not enough room down there for every planetside seadweller to have their own little empire.”

Maybe the scowl earlier was just disapproval – he gives the prissiest sniff you’ve ever heard (and you lived with Daaeme for sweeps, you know from prissy) about the seadweller thing. You give a wry shrug and glance over to check on your boat. 

But when you look back, Jiaahu’s smiling. You were starting to wonder if he even could, but sure enough, there he goes. Looks awkward as all hell, but genuine. Hesitantly, you risk a more genuine smile in return – just as his fades. Oh well. At least you tried.

“Not so much where I’m from,” you clarify. “But when I moved to Ketera, well. The lowblood districts there are a trip. I honestly wasn’t expecting that much grovelling, but what can you do.” Another shrug.

Jiaahu heads back into the cabin and you tap your claws absently along the rail. “Not gonna lie, I’ve seen boats that have fucking… thermal hulls and hot tubs and whatnot. Because, again, finfaces and their luxury shit.” To be fair, you’ve seen cobalts with boats like that, too, but why start a fight now?

The kettle isn't quite steaming. But there's smoke curling out of the spout, and that'll do. You grab the nicest of your mugs, the ones with no chips and blue around the rim, set the tealeafs in them, and pour the water on top. On second thought, you nab the plastic-wrapped sugar cubes. They haven't been touched since the last time Riccin was on board, but most people like them. You think.

"Those are for waders," you call idly over your shoulder. "And idiots. Why ruin a good boat by adding things?" The night sky has brightened since she arrived. It leaves you blinking as you step out of the cabin, the tea cups carefully even. "Or are you hiding a hot tub on your boat?"

Passing her the cup puts you closer to her personal space than you'd like, but there's no helping it. "Sugar," you say, offering the cubes. "That sounds.. tedious. You live in Ketera?”

The way she phrases lowblood isn’t exactly personal. You’re getting more and more assured of her caste with every passing moment, and the knowledge is grounding. Olive or teal - the difference doesn’t really matter, does it? She’s Myrrha’s castemate, either rung.

>LIYIJI: Get help.

[harriedherodotus]

mirkstrolls:

“Hah, yeah, you wouldn’t think it by the way they talk, but there’s just not many of the scaly bastards, are there.” It’s weird, but Jiaahu practically lights up when he’s bashing seadwellers. You guess that’s just blueblood hauteur at work again, but whatever – not like you’re much of a fan of theirs either, and he’s much easier to deal with when he’s being enthusiastic. 

Seconds later, you’ve forgotten that you’re managing him and gotten enthusiastic yourself. “That’s what I’ve always said! Everyone’s always like, seadwellers own the sea, Taz, what you doing sailing, and it’s like – dude, they can breathe underwater, the fuck do they want with the surface and beaches?”

He frowns blackly, which is off-putting enough that you trip up for a second – did you use the wrong word? No, it sounds almost the same in your first languages as it does in Standard, and you’re warming to your topic now anyway. “Yeah, you know, the whole, ‘oh we can’t spill royal aquatic blood, if a seadweller wants to fucking eviscerate me for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, it’s my place to just let them–’ stuff. That shit. They’re not gods, they’re trolls, no matter what arguments you make about strength and longevity and whatever else.” 

You didn’t hear the teakettle whistling, but Jiaahu says it’s done, so you let him go. Maybe you didn’t hear it because you were talking so much. You’ve probably been talking his ear off, and God, that was stupid, he doesn’t care about your theories on caste politics. At least you didn’t say anything about it being heresy, because at that point you should just wave a fucking pennant like hello, yes, I’m an aberrant cultist, cull me now– oh, he’s asking you something.

“Black’s fine–” you start, before the rest of his sentence catches up with you, and you sputter a laugh. “Aw, damn, Jiaahu, no gray tea? Black’ll have to do, it’s desaturated enough.” You grin. “No sugar or milk, please and thanks.”

"Exactly," you interject. "It's selfish. And stupid. There's more ocean than land. There's more ocean than air."

"And.. oh. Right." Can you say that you knew that? No. That'd be dishonest. And while you don't particularly care about lying to some hemoanon, not when you could save face, it seems rude here. She's been pleasant. And.. she doesn't seem likely to buy into it, regardless.

The thought of being caught lying is infinitely more displeasing than her thinking you stupid. (She doesn't think you're stupid. She'd harp, if she did: what else do lowbloods do, but strike when they see weakness? You've seen it with Riccin, Sipara. Even Dysseu, if he thinks he can get away with it.) "Why would anyone think they're gods?" you say, with a sniff. "Is that a thing over at.."

".. well. Wherever you're from? There's too many seadwellers for that. Back where my hive is. But we only have blues." You only realise you're smiling when the hard skin of your scars bunch, and then you stop, letting your face fall into a milder expression. "You'd be a fool to let a violet gut you. When the cohort's full of them."

She laughs. It's not a dignified sound. It doesn't give you any hint of a caste, beyond the fact it's as rough as her personality. But you can't be doing badly if she's laughing. "Who carries milk on a boat?" you say, dry, and retreat to the cabin.

>LIYIJI: Get help.